


this numbness only goes so far

by RestlessWanderings



Category: Star Wars Legends: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Depression, Dissociation, Numbness, Obi-Wan Needs a Hug, might need some tissues maybe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 16:39:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10971204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RestlessWanderings/pseuds/RestlessWanderings
Summary: There have only been a few times where Obi-Wan has felt numb - truly numb, wholly numb, not partially numb. After a time he wraps it around himself like a cloak, shielding himself from pain.





	this numbness only goes so far

The first time he feels numb – truly numb, wholly numb, not partially or sort-of numb – is when he stands in a clearing surrounded by Young, watching his Master – _former_ Master – fly away in a ship.

_He left me here,_ he thinks, clenching his hands into fists so they don’t tremble. Pain bubbles up in his chest and his eyes start to burn. _He left me here._

Obi-Wan knows that his padawanship started on incredibly rocky ground. Qui-Gon had rejected him again and again, only accepting his bid for apprenticeship after he’d cheerfully offered to sacrifice himself on Bandomeer. His neck twinges at the memory of the explosive slave collar. He’d thought, wrongfully, it seemed, that they were on more or less steady ground with each other. It had only been a year, yes, but they’re learning boundaries. They’re trying. Obi-Wan knows not to talk to Qui-Gon on Xanatos’ lifeday and the day Qui-Gon had chosen him as a padawan, for example, and Qui-Gon knows –

Well. He’s not sure if the man actually notices him sometimes. There were times that Qui-Gon seemed to genuinely forget his existence, and occasionally forgot to give him breakfast or dinner or some such. He doesn’t mind too much. After all, the cafeteria is always open and the food is decent enough.

Obi-Wan takes a deep breath. His hands relax. He feels the eyes of the Young, of Cerasi, on him, waiting for his next move. His skin tingles and the static feeling sinks into him until the pain that’s been bubbling up vanishes. He blinks and his eyes don’t burn.

It’s not releasing his feelings into the Force, but he isn’t a padawan anymore.

 

* * *

 

Master Tahl is dead and he is to blame. He knows this like he knows his hair is copper or that Bant will drop everything she’s doing and help him, no matter where they are in the galaxy. It’s a fact. He fell, broke his leg in three places, and his Master had paused to help him. Those few seconds of hesitation were all it took for Tahl to breathe her last, even as his Master made his way towards her.

He’d spent the next couple of weeks in the Halls of Healing, unable to attend her pyre. The numbness had lapped at him then, softly at first, but after four days of being conscious and not seeing Qui-Gon, the waves dragged him down.

The static is comfortable. He gets his work done. He doesn’t feel hurt that Qui-Gon doesn’t notice him. He makes the man tea, waters his plants, make sure that he stays alive, if not exactly functioning. Obi-Wan does his classwork, spends time with his friends, reassures as many as he can that _I’m fine, really, I’m well, you don’t need to worry about me, I’m okay, I’m fine._

But after a few months he can’t stand it. The static is too brittle, too thin, too easily swept away. His connection to the Force is rocky at best, and meditation is no help. There’s no peace, no serenity that he can ensconce himself in, just a great, gaping chasm inside of him that’s darker than anything he’s encountered before.

One day, he snaps. There’s no reason for it, not really. There’s no cause he can pin down. He looks at Qui-Gon – his hair greasy, his eyes dull, his face haggard – sitting on the couch with an untouched cooling cup of tea in front of him, the same position he’d been in the other morning, and the morning before that, and the morning before _that,_ and snaps.

He slams the frying pan onto the stove, rattling the eggs he’d been about to break. There’s a pause, and he senses Qui-Gon’s attention – what little remains – on him.

“You’re not the only one who lost someone,” he says, unable to look at his Master. “I know you loved her, Master, but so did I. She was the one who found me, who brought me to the Temple, who visited me in the crèche. She was someone to me too.”

“Obi-Wan –”

“No,” he says, turning, glaring at his Master, anger boiling up inside of him. “You don’t get to address me. You’ve been so caught up in your own grief that you’ve failed to recognize mine or anyone else’s. You don’t get to make excuses. She’s dead, Master and I know,” he pauses, his throat suddenly closing. “I know it’s my fault she died. I know you blame me. And trust me, I blame myself too. I’m under no illusion that had I not fallen, she would have been saved. I just –”

The numbness is encroaching again. His hands start to tingle, and the lump in his throat disappears. He sighs. “You’ve still got me, Master. I’m still here. I know that might not be enough, but,” he shrugs, looking at the frying pan, “I still need you.”

What little appetite he had before he began speaking is gone. He feels heavy, weighed down, no lighter than he’s felt these past months.

Qui-Gon doesn’t speak, and Obi-Wan can’t look at him.

 

* * *

 

“I’m ready for my Trials,” he says, stepping forward, grateful that his voice doesn’t crack.

_He’s leaving me,_ he thinks. _He’s leaving me **again.**_

And that’s the thing. Obi-Wan knows he’s easy to leave, knows that almost everyone believes him capable enough that when he’s left behind, he’ll find his way back. His loyalty and compassion have been used against him again and again, by stranger, by friends, and by his Master.

Hurt bubbles up in his throat and his chest is tight. He doesn’t bother bracing his shields – the Council will feel it anyway, will know what Qui-Gon’s easy abandonment is doing to him in a way that Qui-Gon should pick up, but won’t.

His Master has already fully blocked their bond, and he grits his teeth. Hidden in his robes, his hands ball up into fists in an attempt the stop them from trembling. It doesn’t work. A lump forms in his throat and it takes most of his concentration not to tear up. Not here, in front of the Masters, when he’s already suffered such humiliation. 

Taking a steadying breath, he balls up his emotions and stuffs them as far away in the back of his mind as he can, reaching for the numbness and wrapping himself in it like a blanket.

When Qui-Gon leaves the chambers without waiting for him, he takes a moment to acknowledge the abandonment. He won’t be able to forgive his Master for a long time, not after this. After a moment he follows, loyal as ever, something in him cracking.

 

* * *

 

Qui-Gon is dead and he feels nothing. If anything the apathy grows stronger, less brittle, and the dark abyss in his mind is more comforting than ever. He knows he’s on the edge of falling into it again, but he’s fallen in so many times that climbing out is second nature. It is a fight he knows as well as he knows as well as he knows the back of his hand.

In those first few days he moves on auto-pilot, clinging to the scraps of his forced calm so that he may care as best as he can for Anakin. The boy, though, is perceptive, and Obi-Wan knows that he isn’t hiding his grief, his apathy, as well as he should.

_But what does it matter? Qui-Gon is dead and I’ve no idea what I’m doing,_ he thinks, scrubbing a leftover dish from lunch. _And it’s not like I can reach out for help at this point. The Council already thinks I’m over his death. What would be the point of it?_

“I miss him too.”

Anakin’s voice is small but it’s enough to make Obi-Wan jump. He turns, rubbing wet hands on his tunics, and stares at the boy.

“Shouldn’t you be in class?”

Anakin nods, ducking his head. Through the Force Obi-Wan can feel the hesitation and fear roll off the boy. He takes an aborted step towards him but stops, not sure what to do. Anakin glances up.

“You’ve just been so sad,” he says, and he picks up speed as he talks. “And I don’t know how to help you or if I’m supposed to help you but I’m sad that he died too and I know you didn’t want to train me so if you give me to someone else that’s okay but I’d rather stay with you and I can do better, I can help out more, I can clean up more and I’m good with machines and I’m a fast learner and –”

“Hey,” Obi-Wan says, interrupting the stream of words. His chest is tight as he walks around the small kitchen island. He hesitates. “Can I hug you?”

When Anakin nods he wraps the boy in his arms, holding him close. “You’re not going anywhere,” he says, rubbing Anakin’s back. “I’m sorry I haven’t been the best Master. I promise I’ll do better. I just,” he pauses, throat tightening, “I feel heavy.” He thinks of the abyss in his mind, and can almost see a speck of light in the distance. Slowly, he begins to mentally hoist himself up.

He feels Anakin nod his head. “Sometimes you don’t move for a long time, and you feel so sad in the Force, like my Mom did after a real bad water harvest, or even for no reason.”

“Yeah,” Obi-Wan says, “and it’s hard to pull myself out of it. But I’m here if you need me, Anakin. Don’t ever hesitate to come to me.”

Anakin pulls away, smiling. “Wizard.”

Obi-Wan chuckles, ruffling the blonde hair. “Yes, wizard.”

_It’s time to start the climb,_ he thinks. _I need to be in the here and now for him._

 

* * *

 

There are plenty of times to lose himself in the war, and by the end of it he has. He keeps the façade, of course, promoting the image of him being mostly okay. Exhausted? Yes. Utterly done with the war? Yes. His disillusionment with the Jedi Code and Council? No. That he cannot even hint to, not now – but perhaps, should the war ever end, he might try and fix things.

But the war takes priority. Battle after battle, death after death. Each one drains him, leaves him feeling hollow and heavy. Even the victories don’t lighten him.

It hits him, late one night, as he’s sitting around with the vods on the _Negotiator._ Somehow the subject of what they’ll do after the war is brought up, and Cody shrugs his shoulders.

“Never really thought about it. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

Eyes turn to him, and the Force shifts. He wants to say something comforting, something that will make his men laugh, but he hasn’t slept in two days.

“I’m going to see the end of the war, but it’ll come at too high a cost for me. I don’t expect I’ll be doing much.”

Silence meets his words. The Force hums in agreement with him. Cody is gaping and Obi-Wan almost laughs. Instead he shakes himself.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ve work to do.” 

As he leaves he hears voices begin to rise, each swearing to protect him. His chest aches, but it’s far away, detached.

 

* * *

 

He still can’t fathom it. A part of him is ashamed of himself – a Master Jedi reduced to auto-pilot, unable to acknowledge what’s happened. And there’s no denying the rips in the Force, no denying the pools of blood he’s just stepped through of the bodies he walked over. There’s no denying the stench of scorched stone and flesh or the full body bruise he sports from his cliff-fall on Utapau.

But he can’t. Not yet. Once everything registers he won’t be able to move for the pain of it. If keeping himself in this fuzzy, numb bubble is the only way he’ll be able to make it through this, then stay in the bubble he shall.

He enters in the keycode to his rooms, noticing the blood that smears the keypad but ignoring it. The soft _swish_ of the door is familiar and calm, and he’s so detached from his body that he doesn’t notice he disarray of his rooms until he’s crossed the threshold and the door has _swish_ ed closed.

He almost laughs. _It hasn’t been this messy since when I was a padawan and brought home a loth cat kitten,_ he thinks. The couch is upturned, cushions ripped in half. The bookshelves are broken as well, the few paper books torn to pieces. The holos from his padawan days are smashed, and his heart aches fiercely at their loss. So too are the more recent ones, and the pain of losing the holos of Qui-Gon, Satine, Anakin, Ahsoka – he shakes his head, bottles the pain away, and pushes it to the furthest place in his mind. The numbness settles back around him and he sighs.

The kitchen is just as wrecked as the common area. There are saber marks across the walls, and from where he stands in the middle of the wreckage he can see some of the padawan room. He doesn’t bother checking the small room – after Anakin had gotten his own rooms in the Temple, Obi-Wan had closed that door and never opened it again.

He steps over broken plates, the small flower figurine he’d gotten from Naboo, the bent decorative dagger Satine had given him a few years earlier (“To remind you that violence is not always the first solution,” she’s said, smiling.), the datapads, the last of Qui-Gon’s plants, not dead and burnt, into his room.

The air is hushed. For once he cannot hear Coruscant’s constant air traffic. There’s a stillness brought on by tragedy that has settled over the Temple and himself, as brittle as it is strong. Sunlight streams through the window, softly illuminating the ruins of his room. He never had much to begin with – keepsakes he couldn’t bear to part with, the plants, gifts he hadn’t had the heart to refuse – but what he does have is strewn about the small space, broken or torn or smashed.

His heart thumps hard against his chest, and a bolt of fear races through him before he pushes it away. He can take Satine’s gifts being broken, can take the holos being smashed, can survive the cracked datapads and torn books, but there is one thing that he cannot tolerate being harmed in any way.

The stone he received from Qui-Gon on his thirteenth life day.

He almost trips in his haste to reach his nightstand. Brushing away the datapads, uncaring and hands shaking, he mutters a quick prayer to the Force, to whoever or whatever might be listening.

The red stone, always warm and emanating a soft glow, is gone. In it’s stead is a pile of broken rock chunks. He brushes his fingertips over them but they’re cold and dark. Though using the Force causes the headache that’s been building behind his eyes to worsen, he reaches out, desperate for even a spark of the Living Force, a hint of his master’s presence.

There is nothing to be felt.

Sinking to his knees, he curls into himself, biting his lip to keep the sob at bay. _Now is not the time Kenobi,_ he thinks, brows furrowing as he struggles to rein in his emotions. His eyes burn. The stone is dead, utterly ruined, completely shattered. Something in Obi-Wan shatters along with it, a piece of his heart he’d forgotten he’d had. The old grief wells up inside of him and he feels like a newly knighted padawan again, weeping at the loss of his master. He closes his eyes at the feel of that particular scar being ripped open again. Hugging himself, he forgoes biting his lip for gritting his teeth, hands clenching at his arms. His breaths come in short gasps and a few errant tears burn tracks down his cheeks. _Deep breaths. It’s okay. You’re okay. Get up and keep going._

After a few moments he pulls himself together, wiping the tears from his face. He gathers up the remains of the rock and puts them in one of the inside pockets of his tunic and stands, taking a deep, shuddering breath. He pulls the numbness around him like a cloak and walks out of his room, the common area, and into the hallway. His door hisses behind him as it closes, and there’s an air of finality about it that causes him to shudder.

He will not be coming back. This is no longer his home. This is a tomb to everything that was, and everything the Jedi could have – _should have –_ been. He sighs, long and low, and presses a hand to his chest where he’s put the small remains of his stone. They dig into his skin a little, but the feeling reminds him that he’s alive and that no, this isn’t a dream, isn’t some nightmare he hasn’t been able to force himself awake from. 

“I’ll fix this,” he whispers. “Somehow, someway, I’ll fix this.”

 

* * *

 

He won’t dwell on Mustafar. It’s a memory better left untouched. He tucks it away, refusing to acknowledge it until he absolutely must.

The numbness is all he has left. He sits under Tatooine’s stars and meditates, but nothing seems to help.

 


End file.
